


Frustration

by thedevilchicken



Category: Reign of Fire (2002)
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-24
Updated: 2003-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4191066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn finds a new way to take out his frustrations on Van Zan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frustration

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal on 24 July 2003.

His face stung. His arm stung. His bruised ribs ached and his head throbbed. And washing out his cuts with iodine wasn't exactly helping his pain, even though he understood it would help to ward off infection. He didn't need an infection right now. It wasn't exactly like he could pop down the local chemist and pick up some Germolene, for Christ's sake. 

So he persevered; it stung like a sod and stooping over the bowl made his lower back ache like he was developing sciatica. He straightened out his spine as best he could, leaning forward heavily against the table on his scraped palms. He could've sworn he heard something crack; it felt like something cracked. He groaned, screwing his eyes shut. 

"It ain't nothin' personal, y'know." 

Quinn smirked and rubbed briefly at his eyes with his left hand, the one that wasn't currently covered in iodine and smelling resolutely foul as a consequence. It would stain - he remembered that from chemistry. He didn't remember much of school, and what he did remember was depressingly random. Ever since that day in London, everything he'd learned had come from stolen or scavenged books, or from the people he'd met along the way. 

If he hadn't been so thoroughly blinded by his anger, he might have realised that Van Zan had a lot to teach him. 

"This is war, man. Those things out there took out three of my men. I need soldiers." Van Zan's boots thumped loudly against the stone floor of Quinn's room as he stalked over from the doorway. Quinn didn't have to wonder how he'd got in; the door was unlocked and it wasn't as if anyone would be putting themselves at risk to get in the big American's way. He couldn't say he blamed them, after what had happened. 

His body ached, but it was all superficial - none of it hurt like his pride. No one would say it to his face, but they were all thinking it; Quinn had lost. He'd fought him and he'd lost. He'd been beaten, and in more ways than one. 

"It ain't nothin' personal," Van Zan repeated, much closer now. His footsteps stopped. In the cold of the room, Quinn almost thought he could feel the heat of the American's body on his skin. 

"Y'see, that's where you're wrong", Quinn said, retrieving the cloth from the bowl, wiping it over his lacerated arm. He winced, irritated. "This _is_ personal. It's as personal as it gets. These people are my friends. These people are my _family_ , Van Zan, and you're leading them away to die." 

"Casualties of war, Quinn. Every war has 'em." 

"You and your bloody Marine mentality can go straight to sodding hell, mate, 'cos I don't give a damn."

Quinn looked up. He could see Van Zan in the mirror above his bed, standing there, hovering at his shoulder not even a foot away. His mouth was open and his chin was lowered, his eyes were fixed on the back of Quinn's neck, his hands pressed flat against his hips. He licked his lips. It was like he was waiting for something. Quinn had no idea what that was.

"We'll be outta your hair soon enough." 

Quinn threw the cloth down into the bowl and turned purposefully, sighing in something close to exasperation. "Yeah, you'll leave, and you'll take six of my friends with you." He narrowed his eyes a fraction, stepped closer. "I hope you die down there, you fucking lunatic." 

Van Zan raised his eyebrows. "You wanna hit me again, Quinn?" he asked, looking him right in the eye. "Is that it? Then go right ahead. Hit me." 

For a second, Quinn actually considered it. He thought about Jared and the friends he was losing to this...man. His mother had tried to teach him that if he had nothing nice to say, he shouldn't say anything at all. He said nothing.

He frowned. He wanted to hit him, right there square on the jaw, knock him out cold. He wanted to drive his fists into his kidneys and send him sprawling on the floor. He wanted to kick him and he knew he wouldn't want to stop till there was blood all over his boots. 

So he didn't hit him. He reached forward and hooked all of his fingers up to the first joint inside the armholes of Van Zan's leather vest instead, just by his shoulders. He felt his nails scrape at Van Zan's skin and couldn't say he cared if it hurt him. Van Zan didn't flinch - he just tilted up his chin slightly, and Quinn was left wondering if that shine in the American's eyes was really arrogance or something ever so slightly different. 

Van Zan smirked at him as his bare chest drew closer to the front of the leather vest. Quinn glared. He wanted to wipe that fucking smirk off his face. He wanted to split his lips open with his knuckles. He wanted to cave his teeth, bloody up his jaw. He didn't. 

He kissed him instead. In the end it had the same effect; Van Zan stopped smirking. 

It was mercifully quick. Quinn jerked forward and pressed his lips hard against Van Zan's, hard enough to feel the American's teeth press roughly against his mouth, hard enough so his own teeth almost cut him open. His fingers tugged hard at the leather vest, pulling him in closer. He could taste his own blood in his mouth. Then he seemed to remember himself, or just the situation, and pushed the American away. 

He didn’t do such a fantastic job of shoving him – he’d been aiming to have him fall on his arse but all he did was stagger back a few feet and regain his balance in a highly unsatisfactory manner. For the first few seconds Van Zan just stared at him, red-lipped and plainly astonished. Then he smiled. It was a strange sight.

“So _that’s_ what you wanted,” he said, putting his hands on his hips, cocking his head. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

Van Zan’s hand on the back of his neck took him by surprise. The American had closed the distance between them so quickly that he hadn’t really seen it coming and then before he had a chance to reply or protest, he was being kissed. Hard. He jerked away, though as he opened his mouth to voice his protest, Van Zan’s hand at the back of his neck pulled him back in. He took advantage of his open mouth and plunged in his tongue. Suddenly Quinn had no more thoughts of protest. He kissed him back hungrily, messily, ragged around the edges.

His hands went to Van Zan’s neck, to his shaved head, down the back of his leather vest to cup his arse and pull him closer. Van Zan chuckled as they kissed and hooked the fingers of his right hand under Quinn’s belt. They were pressed so tight against each other, grasping tightly, almost painfully. Quinn guessed that was the point. 

He turned suddenly, without warning, and shoved Van Zan down on the bed. His knees hit the side of the mattress and he fell down, his back of his skull narrowly escaping a collision with the wall and Quinn wasn’t sure that wouldn’t’ve been the best possible outcome. He raised his eyebrows and looked up at Quinn with an expression of vague amusement as he reached up and tugged down the zipper of his vest; he shrugged out of it and tossed it onto the floor. Then he brushed the heel of his hand over the bulge in the crotch of his camouflage trousers, grinning broadly, and Quinn felt his cheeks flushing red. 

Van Zan kicked off his untied boots onto the floor and started on his trousers. Quinn was suddenly acutely aware of his own rather similar situation and his previous embarrassment shoved as far down as it would go, he stepped forward, grabbed Van Zan’s waistband and yanked the trousers down to his knees. The American’s erection sprang free, long and firm and hot. He pulled the trousers off the rest of the way with a little more difficulty and tossed them down on top of the discarded vest. Van Zan seemed mildly impressed, and infuriatingly amused. 

“What are you waitin’ for?” he asked, his accent thicker now, more of a drawl, the sort that Quinn remembered from the Westerns he’d watched when he was a kid. He could almost imagine Van Zan in chaps and a duster coat and a wide-brimmed Stetson, riding around the old West on some tired old horse with silver pistols strapped to his thighs. Instead, he was a dragon slayer. He guessed maybe that was the new world equivalent. “Are we gonna fuck or are you just gonna stare?”

Quinn scowled. He fumbled annoyingly with his belt buckle, cursing colourfully under his breath, and pushed down his trousers. They didn’t fall much further than the curve of his arse but it didn’t matter – he couldn’t have cared less if he were naked or not. He grabbed the only thing he could think of that would work even remotely well as lubricant – which happened to be some kind oil, and he knew he’d regret it when his sheets were oil-stained and his privates were still slathered in the stuff in the morning – and he dropped down on the bed, between Van Zan’s thighs. 

He poured the oil onto his hand and put the can back on the table by the bed as he rubbed the thick liquid over his cock. Van Zan was still smirking at him and as Quinn wiped off his hand on his trousers, he parted his thighs even further, leaning back and exposing himself totally. So Quinn moved forward, kneeling, his knees tucking in under the American’s muscular thighs. He shoved hard at them with his hands, pushing Van Zan into position, and though he was more than a little rough, neither of them seemed to care. 

He didn’t bother with any further prep. He didn’t care if he hurt him – actually, he kind of liked the idea. He leant forward, pressed the blunt head of his cock against Van Zan’s arse. He shoved, hard, buried himself inside him in one thrust and heard him hiss loudly. Quinn’s mouth twisted in what he supposed was a grin. 

He drew back slowly then thrust back in again, with almost bone-jarring force. It felt better than he’d hoped, sort of like he was getting his own back in a way, though this wasn’t exactly what he’d intended; he’d wanted to smear Van Zan’s lips all over his face, not get naked and make a holy mess out of his sleeping quarters. And, of course, the whole thing went to hell when he looked up, because Van Zan was grinning at him, his arms behind his head showing off his biceps and his impressively solid abs as Quinn fucked him. He looked so fucking smug. Quinn’s only possible response was to fuck him harder.

He leant down over him on his scraped palms for leverage, thrusting in deeper, Van Zan’s hard cock straining against his abdomen. For some stupid reason he was staring right into the man’s eyes, glaring into them, their faces only inches apart. Van Zan’s lips parted and his breathing came more heavily; he moved his hands and grasped Quinn by his forearms. His grip fucking hurt but Quinn didn’t really care. He felt his balls tightening, his skin tingling. 

“Aww, fuck!” Van Zan muttered, bucking his hips up hard against him. His cock brushed at Quinn’s stomach and then he felt Van Zan tense and a hot splatter across his skin. Quinn moaned and thrust just a couple more times before he came, too, deep inside the intensely irritating American. 

Quinn pulled out and rolled off quickly, stretching out down on the bed, breathing harder than he liked. He rubbed at his face, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. Nope, not what he’d intended to do at all. 

He felt the bed shift and when he looked up, Van Zan was pulling up his trousers, stepping into his boots. Quinn watched as he stooped and picked up his vest, pulling it over his tattooed arms and tugging up the zipper with a satisfying buzz. Quinn found he had an alarming compulsion to run his hands over that vest, to trace the lines of his tattoos with his tongue. It was disarming to say the least.

“You’re a good guy, Quinn,” Van Zan said, grinning toothily, pulling a large cigar from his pocket and tucking it into the corner of his mouth. He struck a match – Quinn hadn’t even _seen_ a match in years – and lit it, shaking out the flame with a flick of his wrist. “This really ain’t nothin’ personal. I just wanna kill those fuckers.” 

Quinn rolled his eyes as Van Zan turned to leave. Not personal? Ha. There was nothing more personal. 

Van Zan left the room, almost slamming the door behind him, leaving Quinn alone. He smelled of semen and oil and iodine and probably blood too, and he ached even more than he had before. He almost wished he’d stayed, but he didn’t know what for. What had he expected? Romantic kisses and post-coital cuddling? He pulled up his trousers and buckled his belt, wiping off his stomach on the towel from the table. 

As he returned to the bowl and the iodine, grimacing as he ran the cloth over his bicep, he had to wonder if he hadn’t been the one getting fucked.


End file.
